Chapter Text
Troy's jaw is throbbing. It's been throbbing, but today it seems extra vigorous in its pounding. With the end of the season, the brief glimpse of hope at a playoff run, and other things he's had on his mind, he's been able to ignore the way his jaw used to just ache but recently it's been worse. He'd convinced himself that he just needed to make it to the end of the season and then he could pay attention to his life. It wasn't even that bad! He'd been confident it would be fine.
Troy hates his past self as a general, blanket rule, but right now, he really hates the specific past Troy that decided missing games wasn't worth it. In some other timeline, there is a Troy Barrett that isn't looking down the barrel of a complicated oral surgery with a recovery time that's utter bullshit. In some other timeline, there is a Troy that made a lot of better decisions.
This timeline's Troy really needs to stop listening to Wyatt recap the MCU at him, but he has to admit that he enjoys listening to Wyatt go off on some info dump. It's like background noise, a bit, when music or a podcast doesn't scratch the entertainment itch. Wyatt probably has a billion comics he could lend to Troy, and he'd be fucking thrilled to do it, but Troy is pretty sure that he'd end up liking Wyatt's version better.
"Barrett! Where is your husband and your child?" Ilya barks in way of greeting, shocking Troy out of his thoughts with a flinch that makes his head throb. He whips his head around to make sure that Harris isn't in the locker room, but it's just Ilya, giving him an unimpressed look. Troy glares at his so-called best friend towering in the doorway, dressed fashionably for the off season, and entirely uncaring of how his words send Troy's heart into hyperdrive. "Give me some credit, Barrett. I am not going to reveal your deepest darkest stupid secret."
"You sure about that?" Troy snaps, turning back to his locker to grab the last of his shit. He should be looking forward to a couple of days rotting in bed while Harris finishes up the thick of his post-season wind down at work, then packing for their summer trip to Vancouver Island. That had been the plan last year and it had been perfect, so it only makes sense to do that plan again, except no. Troy's stupid wisdom teeth had to be little bitches way later than they had any right to be. Most people get their wisdom teeth out at eighteen-ish, but Troy had been busy getting drafted and the pearly fucks weren't causing any problems back then.
As far as Troy is concerned, he brushes his teeth, doesn't eat too much sugar, and he flosses. As long as he's not actively knocking them out, then his teeth should just fucking exist and do their fucking jobs.
So instead of having another perfect start to the summer break to ease the ache of a rocky season, Troy has to get his stupid wisdom teeth removed. Needless to say, he's less than thrilled that he has to put up with shit from his captain about the other significant stressor in his life. He doesn't say any of that out loud though, instead grabbing his pain stim and rolling it between his hands. Ever since he bought the little device, a simple plastic tube covered in small, deceptively sharp spikes, he's kept it nearby. He's been trying to be better at not just…snapping at people when he's stressed. It's a work in progress, and today feels like he'll need all the help he can get.
At some point during his internal tantrum, Ilya sits down next to him and lets him stew. It floods Troy with a kind of horrendous relief when his friends, his team, his brothers meet him where he is when they can. It's just a pack out day, and not even the last one, so Ilya has a couple extra seconds to let Troy take a fucking breath, but Troy hates that he needs that kind of care in the first place. He gives his stim another hard squeeze, clenching up his face for good measure before letting it all go. "Sorry."
Ilya doesn't say anything at first, just nods to acknowledge that he sees the apology for the thanks it really is. "I fuck with you, Barrett, but I want you to have the perfect," he pauses when Troy's shoulders tense up again and clears his throat, "you know." Troy lets out another breath.
"I know. I'm—" overreacting, being a whiny bitch, losing my shit over nothing, "—it's just a lot. With the shit with my," he gestures to his mouth. His stupid teeth are the reason Ilya is even here instead of already at the cottage with Shane; Harris had thought it would be better to not have Chiron under foot while Troy recovers. His appointment isn't until next week, but Ilya had insisted that he didn't want to drive to the cottage, only to turn around a couple of days later to grab Chiron. Troy isn't looking forward to not having his dog around, but he can't really tell Ilya to make the drive twice as many times when he and Shane are doing them a favor.
Ilya nods, waits, then nudges Troy's foot. "And with the season," Ilya supplies when Troy stays stubbornly quiet. Of course, Troy breaks first and huffs, giving him a weak glare of silent confirmation. Yeah, you caught me. Ilya just shrugs. "It was not what I expected either. But I know next season will be different. We are good team, better now than we were at the beginning of this season."
Troy holds his breath. It's the first time either of them have acknowledged the…cloud of weird vibes that permeated the season. Troy's cloud of weird vibes, because everyone else was adjusting to having Shane on the team no problem! His fingers clench around the pain stim again, dozens of sharp points digging into the meat of his palms until he feels less like he's going to throw up.
It's so stupid. Troy honestly hadn't expected Shane joining the team to be a big adjustment. Sure, he was as starry eyed about the idea of playing with Shane Hollander instead of against him as the next guy (though no guy was more starry eyed than Haasy), but the nature of a long hockey career is that players change teams. Not as frequently as say, Ryan Price, but it's known to happen. Adding another powerhouse player should have meant any easy sweep for the Centaurs; it's what everyone had been expecting. And by all accounts, they had a good season. No playoffs, but that happened, and they had made sure to make Chicago work for their playoffs spot. It had just been a lot to adjust to, having Roz and Hollander on the same team.
Honestly, Troy'd been expecting that the weird agroflirting would get to him the most, but it was the way that Ilya and Shane just…clicked on the ice. They have this crazy, almost telepathic way of playing that's probably brought some of the best hockey out of the team, but it was an adjustment. Things were arguably better all around, but if he's being really honest with himself, he'd be able to admit that he misses a time when he didn't feel like he was a third wheel whenever Harris isn't around. He misses when he and Ilya would hang out in his room on roadies, chirping and relaxing together. He hates how jealous he is that Ilya gets to hang out with the love of his life on every trip, while Troy feels Harris's absence like a phantom fucking limb.
What it boils down to is that he's being a jealous little bitch baby. He knows that all of these issues are 'him problems', so Troy has been following his tried and true method of ignoring the slightly uneasy feelings he has around Shane and hoping it goes away. Shane is great, he's been nothing but polite to everyone (minus Ilya), and Troy is thrilled that Ilya is happy after waiting for so long. He just needs to get the fuck over himself.
"I guess," Troy shrugs, working his hands against the spikes between them to ease some of the pressure he can feel building behind his eyes. Ilya just shrugs again.
"We can talk about it after you get your—was it grill?" Troy snorts and nods. "After you get your grill fixed. Or we do not have to talk about it, but the offer is there." Troy nods again and presses harder against the spikes because he knows what Ilya is really saying. It wasn't as bad as you think. You started a bit rough, but never badly enough that it needed to be addressed. If you get your shit together, then we don't have to talk about it. He can do that. No problem. "Now, seriously, where is my nephew? I have play date planned at the dog park and Anushka cannot be unfashionably late."
"Who's that, buddy?" Harris's voice booms down the hall as if summoned. He's been in meetings most of the day, but the plan is that he should be ready to leave soonish. His actual appearance is preceded by the sound of Chiron galloping into the locker room, all wagging tail and slobbery kisses. Ilya surrenders himself to his fate so that he's on his back on the floor with Chiron licking his face when Harris finally catches up. "Oh, dear, I see there's been an attack." Troy snorts and shakes his head at his dog's antics. He lets himself tune out and keep packing while Harris goes over Chiron's babysitting instructions with Ilya, as if they've never asked him and Shane to watch Chiron before. Ilya just asks every time, in case he needs to know.
Most of the guys have already grabbed their stuff and started their summer breaks; Troy is one of the stragglers this year.
"Hey, stud," Harris calls to get Troy's attention some time later. Troy tucks his clear tape in his bag and zips that pocket shut before turning to give Harris his attention. The looks he receives are unimpressed, but Troy isn't a fool; clear tape was a closely guarded commodity in any locker room. "Ilya and Chiron are gonna head out."
"Okay, bet. Do you have more work to do?"
"Nope, I'm done for the day. Are you?"
"Yeah, I'm finished."
"Great! We'll walk with you, Rozy," Harris says with his beaming smile. Troy hefts his duffle bag and big bag on his shoulders and grabs his water bottle before following their little troupe out of the building. He lets Ilya and Harris dominate the conversation, though maybe he's just letting them conversate around him, for all that he's contributed. Neither of them call him out on it though, which he appreciates.
His thoughts wander as they head out of the practice facility. He's being a pussy about the whole teeth thing. He's a professional athlete at the height of his career in a highly violent sport; doctors should not phase him. And they don't! Not really. It's just, well, no one likes the idea of surgery, and apparently his wisdom teeth are particularly fucked up, so it's not just like they're gonna be plucking his teeth out like daisies.
It's the recovery though, that he's most concerned about. He's been trying to put off the procedure for as long as possible, not to avoid missing games necessarily, but because Harris would have insisted on taking time off and his promotion has kept him so busy. The last thing Troy wants is to add to that stress, and his dentist had said it wasn't an emergency—at least not at the first appointment he'd had at the beginning of the season, and still not at the follow-up Troy had over the all-star break. And sure, maybe his jaw has gone from sore to various levels of throbbing with the occasional stab of shooting pain lately, but it's not such a huge deal. He didn't let it affect his game and the aching had been managed so far with normal over-the-counter pain killers. He doesn't know if he'd be able to do anything strenuous in bed with how his jaw feels, but both he and Harris have been working hard recently, so there hasn't been much time for more than a quick handjob in the shower.
Troy just knows that he's going to be woozy and pathetic about it. He's gonna lie around for days all puffy, and he has to eat soft foods only, which sucks because only Shane Hollander would be happy injesting his nutrients via smoothie bowl for every meal. He's supposed to sleep sitting up, which means that he's not going to sleep well at all, plus the best place for him to sleep is going to be one of the recliners in the living room, and he's not going to make Harris sleep on one of the couches just to keep him company, but that just means he's going to miss Harris even more. And it's extra stupid because he's gonna be a complete bitch about it and not even be able to try to save face; serious pain meds strip away any sense of self control that he has. Filter? Gone. Keeping a lid on the various thoughts and anxieties he keeps under lock and key in his brain? Forget about it.
He once told Dallas that he had pretty eyes after a concussion and had to endure months of Dallas and the other guys in Toronto calling him all sorts of shit.
And maybe he's been carrying around a ring box in his mental pocket for months now. The physical ring is in a box of miscellaneous stuff under the bed that Harris has definitely forgot about because it's all Troy's crap. It's just…Harris deserves something perfect for his proposal, and Troy hasn't had the extra time to plan anything.
A voice that sounds a lot like Curtis Barrett reminds him that if he really cares, he would have made the time, that he hasn't proposed yet because he knows, deep down in his heart of hearts, that Harris should probably say no when he finally asks. Troy doesn't really need the reminder; he's well aware that he's a coward.
"Barrett, are you walking home?" Ilya's voice brings him back to the present. Without him even realizing, they've arrived at the cars. They drove in Harris's truck today so that they could give Ilya's Chiron's crate and essential stuff: food, treats, his favorite toy. Troy swallows hard. He's so used to Chiron's routine, their morning runs so that he's not bouncing around Harris's office all day, his heavy stomps when he's begging for second dinner—Harris has to be the one to deal with it, to be the mean-dad because Troy folds every time.
He wasn't upset when he and Harris packed up the majority of his stuff the night before. He wasn't upset when they put all of the packed stuff in the truck and made sure that Froggy was in the bag. But now Troy feels like he's gonna lose his mind because he won't even have Chiron to make him feel better when he's puffy and disgusting. And fuck, Chiron is really Harris's dog when it comes down to it.
"Oh, no. I'm not." Troy scowls at the truck instead of his captain and the man he loves. He knows Harris is giving him a look, can feel the prickle of Harris's internal monologue as he tries to figure out what's wrong. Bood calls Harris's expression his 'Troy Whisperer' face when he does it. "Can you—?" he asks, gesturing at the passenger side door. He waits to pull the handle until the door beeps and stows his backpack in the front cab, making sure to grab his pain stim from the front pocket before depositing his big hockey bag and smaller duffle in the truck bed. It takes no time at all, but the silence makes it feel like an eternity.
"Well, I will let you have a moment to say goodbye. But not too long, we have to pick up Anushka on the way to the dog park," Ilya says with one of his playful, harmless smiles once Troy is facing them again. The kind of smile that he uses when he's trying to be light, to pull his teammates out of the darkness when they're stuck. It's all good here. It's not that serious. It's his way of being a good friend, and Troy wants to strangle him for giving him the care at all, for knowing that Troy needs to be handled delicately. He's fine. He doesn't need his captain treating him like a—
"Enough about the fucking—!" he snarls before he can stop himself. His jaw pounds in time with his pulse and he has to squeeze his eyes shut with how badly it hurts for a second. Chiron whines and noses at the back of Troy's knee, just one more piece of stimuli. It takes everything in him not to snap at their—Harris's—dog. His chest floods with icy shame; none of them should have to deal with him like this. "Fuck! Sorry." He leans his forehead against the truck and takes a breath. He just wants to go home with his boyfriend and their dog and plan for the kind of trip worthy of a proposal.
"Troy, baby." And okay, maybe keeping Harris kind of in the dark about how he's been feeling probably wasn't the best plan after all, because Troy is freaking out and Harris doesn't have a clue why because Troy hasn't told him that he's been freaking out. Chiron is whining still, and what kind of piece of shit makes their own—their boyfriend's—dog sound like that. Troy keeps his eyes shut, but he hears Harris and Ilya exchange a few words quietly. He takes a couple of deep heavy breaths as covertly as possible to drown out Harris apologizing for him.
"Is okay. Troy, I'll see you at dinner in two weeks. I have disgusting American jello dinner planned." You'll be okay. I'll see you soon.
"Right. Sounds horrible." Troy's response is weak from where his face is pressed against the cab. He takes a breath, knocks his forehead against the cab frame once, and turns around. Ilya looks kind of quietly freaked, but he doesn't say anything, thank fuck.
They get through giving Chiron some departing scritches without Troy having another moment. As soon as Ilya drives off, Troy wants Chiron back; he knows he's not off the hook after his mild freak outs, and talking about his shit is less unbearable when he has forty kilograms of fur on top of him. He settles for rolling his pain stim between his hands again while Harris goes around to the driver's side. It's not until they're buckled in and on the road home that Harris finally clears his throat.
"So, bud, wanna tell me what's going on in that beautiful head of yours?" Harris asks, reaching over the console and offering Troy his hand as an alternative to the stim that's made Troy's palms bright red. Troy quickly tangles their fingers together and presses a hard kiss against Harris's knuckles. His other hand clenches around the pain stim again, but it's not fucking working to distract Troy from how horrible he feels. The entirety of his face burns hot, which is stupid. This isn't a big deal, he's being such a fucking puss—"Troy, honey, you gotta breathe."
Oh, right.
Troy sucks in a shaky breath that's damningly wet. He fucking hates this. He never fucking cries because it sucks. His face feels like it's made of sand, impossibly heavy and full, and the back of his throat aches. It's not until he remembers to unclench his jaw that he realizes how every muscle in his body is wound tight. "I'm sorry," he rasps. "My face hurts. I'm sorry." It's not an excuse, it's not, but he can't keep everything together now that he doesn't have hockey to distract him.
"Oh, Troy, baby," Harris breathes, squeezing Troy's hand as much as he can with the strangle hold Troy has on his fingers. He mutters something about getting them home and Troy feels the truck rev into a higher gear. Troy focuses on keeping quiet.
The thing about trying not to cry is that it means the heavy pressure in his face won't leave. He knows actually crying—a "good cry" is what Harris's mom calls it—will help. Which is absolutely bullshit, not that Troy would ever dare say that to Marlene. He just doesn't appreciate the fact that the experience sucks enough that it doesn't seem worth the supposed relief on the other side.
He lets Harris bundle him into the house and upstairs to their bedroom like he's some kind of child. His bag full of gear and his duffle will still be waiting to be unpacked after he's done with his melodrama. Part of the reason he chose this house to buy is that it has a long driveway and enough space that it satisfies Harris's need for the country. The main reason he bought it is because Harris's face lit up when he saw the sun room in the back of the house. It fits them for right now, and Troy hopes it will still fit them in the years to com; that maybe they can build onto it together.
Troy sits on the blanket chest at the foot of their bed that Harris's parents gave them when they moved in—already filled with the same handmade blankets that spilled through the entire Drover farmhouse. Troy gets as far as taking off his shoes and socks before he's exhausted by the thought of taking clothes off and putting different ones on; he's in joggers anyway. He looks around their room—his on paper, legally, but theirs in every way that mattered—and reminds himself that Harris isn't going to be mad at him. He definitely probably won't be upset enough to yell at Troy when he already feels like shit. It's idiotic that he has to remind himself of that in the first place, like he doesn't know Harris is the best person on Earth.
"End of season snuggle sesh!" Harris declares once he's out of his work clothes. He's changed into a loose gray pair of sweatpants and a black tank top, a combination that would normally have Troy half-hard immediately, but instead, his jaw throbs. On top of that, he knows that Harris is going to use his snuggling powers for evil to get Troy to talk. "I am gonna go downstairs and grab some snickety-snacks, and then we can decompress." Troy very specifically doesn't flinch at Harris's word choice. "What can I get you to help, hon?"
"Water. And pain meds—anti inflammatories and regular," Troy starts. The emotional cat's out of the bag, so Troy figures that at the very least he can be not in pain for this conversation. "An ice pack would be great, and one of the smoothies in the freezer?"
"The protein ones?"
"Yeah."
Harris stops in front of Troy and brushes his hands along Troy's shoulders as he presses a kiss into his hair. Troy sags into the touch, resting his ear against Harris's scar and letting his heartbeat's steady rhythm soothe him. After a minute, Harris gently nudges him back, rubbing the tips of their noses together until Troy scrunches up his face in a poorly concealed smile. Mission accomplished, Harris blows him a kiss. "Okay, brb."
Troy leans his head back against the footboard—the bed frame is another Drover heirloom—and wishes that he could just teleport into bed. He closes his eyes and imagines himself curled up sitting against the pillows, as if to manifest the vision into reality. When that doesn't work, he groans the entire seven steps it takes to crawl into bed and ignores the pang when he remembers that Chiron isn't going to come up and be his little spoon while Harris shows him the funniest bits of social media he's collected that day.
He drifts as he waits for Harris, thinking about how he can salvage the beginning of their summer. The first couple of weeks are going to suck, but maybe he can find a short vacation or rent a place somewhere warm and always sunny where Harris can get freckles on his shoulders and nose. But before that, he's going to have to suck it up and just heal really well. He'll be the best patient, Harris won't even know he's missing in action.
"Okay, studmuffin, I have your protein smoothie with some fresh fruit that I needed to use up. I also have options for salty room temperature, salty hot, fruity sweet, sour sweet, chocolate sweet, cold sweet, aaaand…I think that's it." As usual, Harris's voice proceeds his entrance into their bedroom. Troy tries to figure out just when Harris had all the time to collect this bevy of snacks considering they've been living on protein shakes and plain grilled chicken (Troy) and takeout (Harris, and sometimes Troy) and laughs when he finally lifts his head to look. Harris, beautiful, lovely, amazing Harris, has brought everything that he said, as long as they don't look too closely at the definition of a pastry. Their little breakfast-in-bed tray—woefully under used—is covered in miscellaneous candy left over from Halloween, a couple of fig breakfast oat bars, a handful of pizza rolls, a small plate of smoked lox roll-ups, and a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream that Troy knows has about three bites of ice cream left in it.
"Wow, my hero," Troy says, pushing himself up to show Harris just how grateful he is. His body still feels unnaturally heavy, but he's determined to kiss his man.
"Uh uh, mister!" Harris stops Troy's advance with a hand to the forehead defense maneuver and ignores the way Troy pouts at him. "What's your pain level?" Troy groans and slithers back so that he's lying against their mountain of pillows.
It was dumb to think he could avoid this. "It's fine, babe," he says in a weak attempt to just forget about the past couple of hours, but they both know his protest is useless against Harris when he's bossy. Troy takes a moment to assess the throbbing in his jaw that's evened out into a persistent thrum of soreness and he pinches the bridge of his nose when he admits, "like a five?"
"Troy Kimberly Barrett!" Harris gasps, and despite the fact that he's still upset, Troy is delighted to know that Harris will still try to give him silly middle names for emphasis when Troy has been a complete fuckass.
"I like that one. Has a good amount of syllables," Troy hums. Harris doesn't look amused as he measures out the prescription anti-inflammatory Troy was prescribed a few weeks ago by the team doctor.
"This is serious, Troy! Why didn't you say anything?" Harris passes over the medication and his water bottle, holding his hand out to accept the bottle back once Troy swallows his medication. "And how long has it been this bad?"
Troy takes his smoothie from the breakfast tray and one of the ice cream spoons Harris brought up; the smoothie is still just frozen enough that even using a big straw is a pain in the ass. "Just the last few days. And it hasn't been constant," Troy tries to reassure his boyfriend. Based on Harris's thoughtful frown, he's not very good at reassuring. Who's surprised? "Can we snuggle sesh now?" he asks, poking sullenly at his smoothie. He's pretty sure this one is mango kale…something. The look Harris gives him is indulgent, so Troy decides to push his luck and gives Harris his 'sad-boy eyes'.
"You are such a little rascal," Harris sighs without heat. Troy loves him so much, he's such a dork. He moves the tray so that they have room to get comfortable and Troy can tuck himself against Harris's side. Once they're situated and their snacks are within arms reach, Troy lets himself bask in the feeling of being home, of being pressed up against his perfect boyfriend and not thinking about anything stressful. He wishes this could last forever.
Troy counts to ten but only makes it to six before Harris clears his throat again. "Okay, Troy, you wanna clue me in on what's going on?" Harris asks him, his pretty green eyes big and earnest.
Troy presses his forehead against Harris's shoulder and groans. "It's not, I mean, it's fucking—stupid. I'm being fucking stupid. Or whatever. It's not—"
"Troy Barrett, light of my life, how you're feeling isn't stupid." Harris's voice is firm as he threads his fingers through Troy's hair and gives him a gentle shake that makes Troy break out in shivers.
"This kind of is, though," Troy tries to start again, unsure of the best way to explain himself. "People get their wisdom teeth out all the time. It's not like I actually have anything to be nervous about. I'm being—I'm making all this drama over nothing." He can't see Harris's expression from where he's trying to melt into his barrel chest, but the quiet that follows while Harris processes is almost deafening. "It's dumb. I'm fine. This time next week I'll be down four teeth and we'll laugh about what an idiot I'm being." He distracts himself from how Harris still isn't saying anything by digging a large scoop of smoothie onto his spoon. He's pretty sure he can see some raspberries that Harris added from the fridge.
"Troy…how long have you been feeling anxious about this?" Harris finally asks, wrapping his arms around Troy's middle. Troy shrugs to make room for his hands and leans a little harder into Harris's solid body, strong farm-boy muscle under his softness. He doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't want Harris to worry. And, if he's being brutally honest with himself, he doesn't want to tell his boyfriend that he's been low-key anxious about it the whole time because then Harris will be upset and Troy doesn't want to start their summer this way. He's been telling himself all season, he just has to make it to summer, to the off-season, and then he would finally be able to let go of all of this extra shit he's been carrying. He's not even sure where it all came from. It's like they played their final game in Chicago and as soon as Troy's ass got settled for the return flight, he's been trying to hold himself together, but little bits of everything keeps crumbling between his fingers. Like he's a kid at the beach again, trying to hold his sand castle together as the waves inevitably reclaim what's theirs.
"You haven't mentioned anything—I thought you were stressed from the end of the season—getting so close to playoffs." Harris's voice sounds quietly uncertain, like he's going through a mental list of Troy's weirdness with new evidence and the ugly picture is coming together. Troy continues to slowly eat his smoothie like it's ice cream, staying still and quiet like some kind of prey animal that's caught the attention of a nearby threat.
Except Harris isn't a threat. What the fuck.
"I mean, I was. I—" his throat closes up and chokes off the rest of his words before he can admit that he's been feeling a tumultuous mix of fear, guilt, and shame all season. "Nobody likes going to the dentist." God, he sounds like a fucking baby, whining about how the dentist is big and scary and the tools are loud and sharp. He's damn near thirty, he should be past this. He stabs his spoon into his dumb smoothie and barely gets it on the tray before he's turning back into Harris's arms and burying his face in his broad, wonderful shoulder.
"Aw, babe," Harris coos gently, pressing a kiss to Troy's hair and giving him a gentle squeeze. It's humiliating just how much Troy likes it; he's a grown man, not to mention a nearly six-foot hockey player. "It's gonna be fine. I'll be there when you wake up. Trust me, I'm a pro at this stuff." Right, because Harris has had so many surgeries, he's been through so much, and Troy is sitting here being a little bitch.
Fuck. His face is all hot again. Trying to shift subtly to wipe his eyes isn't an option, so he goes for plan B and bites the inside of his cheek in a desperate attempt to stop the tears before they can get started again. It's just so fucking annoying that he can't just be normal. It makes no sense that he's scared about this.
Troy notices the moment that Harris can feel the wet spot Troy is leaving on his shirt. "Woah, hey, it's okay. You're okay." He's not and he should be. Harris squeezes Troy again and tugs him up until Troy crawls into his lap. "I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't know." Troy shakes his head but can't choke out any words to tell Harris he has nothing to be sorry for, ever.
He's not sure how long they stay like that. Definitely long enough that he tries to move, tries to joke that he's going to crush Harris, but his boyfriend is having none of it. Eventually, he must fall asleep, because the next time he's aware of his surroundings, he's being eased down onto the bed. He makes a small sound of protest but his limbs won't cooperate.
"Shh, go to sleep, baby. I'll be right back."
Tomorrow, Troy will have to talk about some of his feelings. It will be a delicate dance talking around the non-dental shit he's worried about, but right now Troy's anti-inflammatory has brought his jaw pain down to a manageable ache. He reaches out for something Chiron-shaped to pull close and falls asleep before Harris gets back, arms wrapped around a pillow.